


the only cat who knows where it's at

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, just realised that last tag was a pun, make no mistake this is ALL fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 10:39:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6851398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clarke Griffin," Octavia begins, hands on her hips. "Is that your cat?"</p>
<p>"No, it is <i>not</i> my cat," Clarke says defensively, just as the cat resumes nuzzling at her ankles. She huffs at its outright uncooperativeness. "Look, the thing followed me home from somewhere, alright? I’ve never even seen it before today."</p>
<p>Octavia’s nose wrinkles. "'Followed you home'? Are you saying it’s adopted you?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, the one where Clarke has a cat that hates everybody except for Bellamy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only cat who knows where it's at

**Author's Note:**

> ONCE AGAIN, this is NONE of the WIPs i've been working on for the last month or so. 
> 
> what is it doing here, then? ha ha! who knows!
> 
> nonetheless, please enjoy. =)
> 
>  
> 
> (title from 'Everybody Wants To Be a Cat'. AS IN, FROM THE ARISTOCATS. BECAUSE I'M JUST THAT KIND OF PERSON NOW, APPARENTLY.)

 

 

 

 

 

“Go away,” Clarke says, solemn and still.

 

The mangy creature before her yowls quietly, regarding her defiantly.

 

Clarke sighs. “Back,” she commands, clapping her hands sharply in an attempt to scare it away.

 

Completely motionless, it stares back at her with unyielding drops of arctic ice for eyes.

 

“Please?” Clarke tries, cocking her head uncertainly.

 

Nothing.

 

Clarke sighs again, awkwardly pushing fluttering strands of blonde out of her face with her forearm. This is what she’s come to — standing on a public street full of passersby, both arms laden down with bags of fresh painting supplies, attempting to negotiate with a dang _cat_.

 

The stray’s fur is pale yellow, matted with unseemly clumps of grey and black that appear to be consequences of its time out on the streets. The animal’s clearly seen better days. Its skin is hanging loose on its skeletal frame, ribs visible through the patchy fur. There are visible claw marks from where it must have gotten into fights with other strays, some still gleaming a moist, tender red. Its left ear is missing the entire top half, a jagged edge of nothingness left in its place.

 

All in all, it is _not_ a pretty sight to behold. The fact that’s it’s been following Clarke for the last seven blocks _really_ isn’t helping to improve the irate blonde’s impression nor esteem of it. She hadn’t even been able to treat herself to a lovely cup of frozen yoghurt on her way home, thanks to the damn thing trailing her into the shop and getting her immediately booted out by the shift supervisor.

 

She gives up attempting to will the feline away with the power of stern eye contact, and turns towards her building. She pulls open the door, and the cat instantly dashes in, weaving right through her ankles.

 

“No,” she tells it as it patiently waits with her for the elevator.

 

It ignores her and slips right through the doors as they open with a ‘ding’. What a surprise.

 

Its nose is practically glued to her heel all the way down the short corridor. She stops in front of her door and pauses, her hand on the doorknob.

 

“Look,” she begins, marginally less uncomfortable with directly addressing a cat than she’d been three minutes ago. “Thanks for… whatever all that was. Really. Believe it or not, you’re the first person to walk me to my door in months. So, yeah, I guess I… appreciate that.”

 

The cat stares up at her expectantly, neatly seated on its haunches. She suddenly wants to laugh. It looks… almost gentlemanly.

 

She shakes her head. “But you can’t come in, okay? Raven hates cats, so that’s a big no-no. Octavia won’t approve, but then she’ll decide we should keep you, and honestly, you look like you might be carrying at least ninety-eight different strains of bacteria or viruses or something. Also, I don’t even know if we’re allowed to keep pets in this building. And I’m not going to ask, because our landlord is kind of a dick. So. Um. You see why I can’t let you in.”

 

The cat watches her silently, its tail waving back and forth like the flag of some rebellion army.

 

“Okay,” Clarke says, nodding. “Uh. Good talk.”

 

Silence.

 

She exhales. “Right.”

 

Pulling herself together, she wrenches open the door with one hand, all but jumping into the apartment as she simultaneously attempts to block the cat with one foot. Somehow, she manages to make it in without dropping any of her bags, or falling face first onto the floor of her front hallway, accidentally slamming the door on her own foot _or_ the cat — though she can’t really be a hundred percent sure about that last one.

 

Silently congratulating herself on a job well done, she toes off her shoes and trundles into her room to unpack her shopping.

 

One hour later, she hears the front door open, shortly followed by a distinct shriek. Frowning, she sets her paintbrush down and hurries out of her room.

 

“The _fuck_ is _that_?!” Raven demands, one hand pressed flat to her chest and the other pointing accusatorily at Clarke’s pale yellow four-legged shadow, prowling in looping circles in the living room.

 

“It’s a cat,” Clarke responds dryly, as the cat immediately bounds towards her and proceeds to rub its head, neck and the entire length of its body against her bare calves. She flinches, thoughts of diseases and plagues flitting through the rational side of her brain. Even so, her jaw softens at the sight and feel of the cat purring blissfully against her skin. “At least, I think it is.”

 

“It’s a goddamn _demon_ is what it is,” Raven retorts, folding her arms aggressively. “A fucking _menace_. It was sitting out in the hallway when I got home. I didn’t even see it running in till it was already _staring_ at me from—”

 

The cat bristles in Raven’s direction, a warning yowl rumbling in its throat.

 

Raven’s mouth drops open and immediately snaps shut again, her wide eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Oh no you did _not_ , you sewer rat from hell.”

 

“Are we just leaving the door open from now on?” Octavia is standing in the doorway, brows arched in bemusement. “’Cause you know that’s one point for convenience, but also like a million points for getting robbed or murdered, right?”

 

“We have a problem,” Raven informs her stonily as she crosses her arms over her middle.

 

“We have a cat,” Octavia rejoins as she closes the door behind her.

 

“ _We_ do not have a goddamn cat,” Raven corrects acidly.

 

Octavia frowns at her, and slowly turns to Clarke. “Clarke Griffin,” she begins, hands on her hips. “Is that your cat?”

 

“No, it is _not_ my cat,” Clarke says defensively, just as the cat resumes nuzzling at her ankles. She huffs at its outright uncooperativeness. “Look, the thing followed me home from somewhere, alright? I’ve never even _seen_ it before today.”

 

Octavia’s nose wrinkles. “‘Followed you home’? Are you saying it’s adopted you?”

 

Raven sniggers wickedly at Clarke’s offended expression.

 

“No one’s getting _adopted_ ,” Clarke insists resolutely, nudging the animal away from her with a heel. “Fuck. Can someone just help me bring him back out to the street?”

 

She and Octavia release the cat back onto the pavement, but it does nothing but stare balefully at them through the glass door of their building.

 

“Shame,” Octavia muses as Clarke jabs the button for the elevator, both of them glancing back at the cat over their shoulders. “It looks kind of torn up. And hungry.” They turn to enter the opened elevator doors. “I bet it’d look so pretty after a good cleaning-up.”

 

“Pretty sure it’s a he” is all Clarke has to say to that, her mind occupied with the frantic urge to take a shower.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It takes a grand total of two hours for the cat to reappear.

 

Octavia pulls open the door to leave for her date with Lincoln, and stumbles back in surprise when the pale yellow cat dashes right past the doorway, into the apartment and jumps up onto Clarke’s lap as she and Raven are sitting on the couch watching TV.

 

“ _Demon!_ ” Raven shouts, launching off the couch.

 

“What the _fuck_!” Clarke yells down at the purring feline in her lap.

 

“ _Clarke_!” Octavia strides back into the living room, her heels clicking on the floor. “Okay, shit, come on. We’re gonna get rid of it.”

 

For the second time, Clarke and Octavia bring the filthy stray down to the street. This time, Clarke carries him into an alleyway two buildings away and sets him down by a Dumpster as Octavia opens a can of tuna and tips the contents out onto a flattened cardboard box.

 

“There,” Octavia says approvingly, tossing the empty can into the trash. “That should do it.”

 

The cat descends upon the feast, teeth and tongue gnashing with its back completely turned on its human audience.

 

“Goddammit,” Clarke says as they reach their building. “Now I have to shower _again_.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The next morning, Raven opens the door to head out to work, and the cat streaks past her legs and into the kitchen, diving into Clarke’s lap and curling up possessively.

 

“That fucking thing is _possessed_ ,” Raven snaps, long ponytail whipping about in her fury.

 

Octavia snickers into her coffee mug. “I told you. Adopted.”

 

Clarke looks up helplessly over the creature writhing leisurely in her lap. “Maybe we should call the SPCA or something.”

 

“Are you kidding?” Raven demands, crossing her arms staunchly. “Piece of shit doesn’t know when to quit. You’re fucking keeping it.” She promptly turns on her heel and exits the kitchen, the front door slamming shut behind her.

 

Octavia blinks at Clarke. “There’s something I thought I’d never see.”

 

“Oh, he hasn’t earned Raven’s affection yet,” Clarke says darkly, prying the cat off her lap and carrying it out of the room. “Only her respect.”

 

 

 

After a good scrubbing and another square meal, the cat is significantly closer to looking cat-like than it did before. As Octavia predicts, the matted grey and black spots in its fur wash out pretty well, leaving its still dull fur gleaming a lovely pale corn yellow all over.

 

Clarke is completely exasperated when the cat doesn’t let Octavia help with bathing or drying him. He bares his teeth and hisses terribly whenever she happens to get too close.

 

“I have a feeling he’s only going to like you for a good while,” Octavia says, half irritated and half amused.

 

“I thought pets were supposed to either like everybody or hate everybody,” Clarke grumbles, patting the cat’s wet body down with a dry towel. She winces to herself at the feeling of his protruding ribs under her fingers.

 

“He’s a cat, Clarke,” Octavia points out as she steps out of the bathroom to try and find another can of tuna. “He’s basically a moody ass bitch with four legs, a tail, and major trust issues.”

 

“Same, buddy,” Clarke sighs down at him, unable to stop from smiling when he purrs and nuzzles his head into her palm.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Your cat is an asshole,” Raven informs Clarke the next day, brandishing her arm at her, three bright red lines scratched across her brown skin.

 

“Shit, that’s worse than mine,” Octavia comments from the other end of the couch, a safe distance maintained between her and Clarke.

 

“Hades is just misunderstood,” Clarke defends, one hand curling protectively over the furry culprit as he dozes contentedly in her lap.

 

“A misunderstood _asshole_ ,” Raven snarls at the oblivious ball of pale yellow fur, ever so slightly fuller and shinier than two days before.

 

“Are you really sticking with ‘Hades’?” Octavia asks, flipping idly through TV channels.

 

“It was Raven’s idea,” Clarke protests.

 

Raven stares at her from the armchair. “I called him a demon. _You_ decided to name him the fucking king of the underworld.”

 

“It was _inspired_ by you,” Clarke amends primly. “I had to give you credit _some_ how! You didn’t have to buy him a full month’s worth of cat food.”

 

Raven grumbles something under her breath that sounds a lot like _‘punk ass kitty still gots to eat’_ , pulling her legs up over one arm of the couch.

 

Hades twists over to lie on his back, paws in the air as he wiggles his back into Clarke’s legs.

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

  
Clarke exits the elevator on her floor and turns into her corridor, stopping in her tracks.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Bellamy pushes off from where he’d been leaning against her door, squinting tiredly. “Hey, princess. O said she left the book Lincoln’s lending me in her room?”

 

She starts towards him, frowning as she digs through her bag for her keys. “And she’s not here to give it to you?”

 

Bellamy shrugs, stepping aside to give her room at the doorknob. “She said you’d be home around this time. I needed a break anyway.”

 

She glances up at him, her brows furrowing in concern. All of them have barely seen Bellamy over the last two weeks. He’s been working overtime to complete his Ph.D. dissertation, dropping nearly all his usual work shifts and holing up in his room with only his laptop and books for company. They get occasional updates from Miller, who lives with him, but the reports don’t vary much from _‘he’s fine I made him eat a Pop-Tart’_.

 

She slots the key into its hole and turns it, but she manages to stop herself right before actually opening the door.

 

“Uh, maybe you should wait here,” she suggests, suddenly nervous. Hades has been slowly getting used to Raven and Octavia over the last two weeks — just yesterday, he actually let one of them touch Clarke _while_ she was holding him. That’s _progress_.

 

But right now, with everything Bellamy has on his plate, and looking at the dark shadows under his eyes and the worn set of his mouth — she really, really doesn’t want to sic her moody ass cat on him right now.

 

He raises a brow, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Say what?”

 

“I’ll go get the book for you,” she says, the words tumbling out of her in a rush. “You can just hang here, I’ll be really fast. Octavia’s room, right?”

 

Bellamy frowns, evidently confused. “But I… want to come in.”

 

She barks out a laugh that doesn’t sound nearly as unconcerned as she’s aiming for. “What for!”

 

The crease between his brows deepens, and honestly, she doesn’t blame him. “So we can just chill for a bit? At least till O comes home? I haven’t seen her in weeks, Clarke.”

 

Clarke’s grip on the doorknob is quickly turning her knuckles white. “Or you could just go home and, you know. Rest a bit. Catch up on some _sleep_ , you sure look like you could use it,” she says, punctuating the end of her sentence with yet another feigned laugh.

 

Bellamy sighs, his dark gaze landing on hers. “I need a _break_ , Clarke,” he says slowly. “Seriously? Right now, all I want to do is come in, watch some _Parks & Rec_, finish all the ice cream in your freezer and trash talk Hollywood ageism with you. Or Hollywood sexism.” He shakes his head, his black curls bouncing on his head. “Literally anything you wanted to drag Hollywood for would really do it right now. Or anything you could find it in you to go on about for, like, thirty minutes — yeah, that would be great.”

 

She stares, slightly stunned. In all the years she’s known Bellamy, she's never really seen him at this level of exhaustion — the level at which he has absolutely no energy left for regular operation of his typically well maintained speech or emotional filters.

 

He shrugs, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “So, yeah. Can I come inside? Please?”

 

She swallows, unable to tear away from his entreating gaze. “Okay.”

 

He gives her a soft smile — the one that starts in his eyes, and trickles down to his mouth. “Thanks, princess.”

 

She takes a deep breath, and turns the doorknob.

 

“Okay,” she whispers over her shoulder as she crosses the threshold. “Just… be really, really quiet, okay?”

 

He looks at her bewilderedly as he follows after her. “What?”

 

She breathes a small sigh of relief when they’re both standing safely in the hallway, with no sight of pale yellow fur. Hades must be in her room. He likes to curl up on her bed when she’s gone from the apartment, rolling around in her sheets and leaving bits of daffodil coloured fluff all over her pillow. It’s ridiculous, but mostly because she can’t decide whether she finds it more annoying or endearing.

 

“I’ll go get the book,” she says to Bellamy, confident enough to employ a slightly more normative volume.

 

“See you on the couch, princess,” he responds, lips curved in a half smile.

 

As she passes her room on the way to Octavia’s, she makes sure to close her door completely, so that Hades can’t get out. Evidently, he hasn’t heard her voice yet, or he’d already be out of the room trying to find her.

 

She’s on her way back to the living room, book in hand, when she hears it.

 

“What do you think, bud? Feeling a little more old school, or new? Season one was kind of a mess, though. Season two? What about three? Feel good about season three?”

 

Eyes widening in panic, she breaks out into a run, sprinting the rest of the way into the living room.

 

“ _Bellamy_ , don’t—”

 

She stops in her tracks at the sight of Bellamy sitting comfy on the couch, blinking at her with a lapful of nuzzling, purring Hades.

 

“I thought O was just trying to get me out of my room,” he says, absently scratching at Hades’ belly. “Damn, princess. You really _did_ get a cat.”

 

“I didn’t get a cat,” she says automatically, brain working rapidly to recover from the sight of her irritable, surly, snarly cat purring like a radiator in _someone else’s_ lap.

 

Bellamy looks up at her, lips stretched in a half grin. “Well, whatever _this_ is, it came out of the kitchen when you went to go get the book.” He glances down at the ball of yellow fur curling and uncurling in his lap, still grinning facetiously. “I don’t know, princess. It kind of _looks_ like a cat.”

 

She blinks, shaking her head furiously.

 

“How are you doing that?” she demands, taking a step closer.

 

He stares at her, clearly baffled. “Doing what?”

 

“ _That_ ,” she says, pointing at her foul-tempered feline as he snuggles deeper into Bellamy.

 

Bellamy’s brows quirk up in amused confusion. “How are you doing _that_?” he counters, still scratching lazily into Hades’ lemon-tinged fur, now baby soft from weeks of pampering and feeding. “With your face, I mean. Very graceful.”

 

She sinks onto the couch beside him, still watching the pair closely in utter disbelief. “He hates everyone,” she says warily, but there’s a note in her voice that rings with pride. “Even Raven and Octavia.”

 

Bellamy glances at her with a frown. “Raven hates everyone too.”

 

She pauses in consideration, and nods. “Even so,” she continues, “he doesn’t even let Octavia touch him. He barely even lets either of them touch _me_ while _I’m_ touching him.” She scoffs, but there’s no frustration to it. “Fucking idiot.”

 

Bellamy raises a curious brow, taking one of his hands off Hades to stretch it towards her. “Like this?”

 

She stares down at his hand covering hers on her knee, his bigger palm curving warm against hers, his fingers curled around her entire hand.

 

“Yeah,” she manages, blinking down at their joined hands. She drags her gaze back up to his, her breath catching in her throat. “Like that.”

 

Their gazes hold for a long moment — and then Bellamy shrugs, and releases her hand, letting his eyes drop to roam over Hades. “Guess I’m just a cat person.”

 

She snorts. Bellamy Blake is most certainly _not_ a cat person.

 

“You are most certainly _not_ a cat person,” she informs him, one hand reaching for the remote. “According to your sister, cats are just moody ass bitches with four legs, a tail, and major trust issues. So, there you go. That’s the kind of person you are.”

 

He grimaces, exhaling through his teeth as he watches her search through _Parks & Recreation_ episodes. “Not sure if I’m totally down with the _tail_ , though.”

 

Clarke glances over at him still absently petting a contented Hades’ belly. “You’ll get there,” she says, confident enough in the little fur ball’s evidenced satisfaction to relax back into the couch, her shoulder pressed up against Bellamy’s.

 

“By the way,” Bellamy says as she clicks play on a season three episode, “was Octavia just trying to give me a laugh, or did you _really_ name the thing ‘Hades’?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Two years later, they’re sitting on their couch watching _Parks & Recreation_ when Hades runs in, a little bell jingling merrily on his smart blue collar.

 

Clarke’s brows lift in surprise when he jumps onto the couch, demanding her attention. “You seriously went and got him a bell?”

 

Bellamy groans. “Like I said — I love the guy, but I will _not_ have him jumping out of some corner of the room when you’re coming on my tongue, princess. Not _again_.”

 

Clarke laughs, one hand reaching up to ruffle Bellamy’s hair affectionately. Hades settles in her lap, curling into the familiar ball shape she so loves to cuddle, his tail waving slowly from side to side.

 

She frowns at the sight of the moving appendage. “Did you do something to his tail?”

 

“Hmm?” Bellamy’s voice is nonchalant, but his arm tightens around her.

 

She grasps at the ribbon tied loosely around the base of Hades’ long tail. “There’s something in this—”

 

At her gentle tug, the ribbon unravels unexpectedly, and Clarke catches the object springing out of it purely on reflex — there’s a small ring looped into the delicate material, now sitting squarely in her palm.

 

Beside her, Bellamy clears his throat. “Not sure if it’ll help your decision,” he says, voice a little softer than usual, “but it took me about forty-five minutes to hold the little demon still and get the knots right.”

 

She turns her head to smile up at him, tears welling up in her eyes. “I knew you’d be down with his _tail_.” She holds the ring out to him, grinning happily as she stretches out her left hand. “You better not take forty-five minutes to put it on my finger.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this =) fic =) was meant =) to be =) 1K words =) maximum =))))))))
> 
> still, i really hope you enjoyed it! if you did, feel free to leave a kudos and/or a comment! both make me smile really really wide, and i would absolutely LOVE to hear what you think!
> 
> also, come say hi [on tumblr](http://caramellakers.tumblr.com)! the more the merrier, especially as we approach the 19th!


End file.
